


Mysteries of the Solar System

by TeddyTR



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-06
Updated: 2011-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:59:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyTR/pseuds/TeddyTR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The front door hung open, damaged. Sherlock tossed it aside and stepped out. The street was full of debris. With a gasp, he started to scan his surroundings for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is it! My longest fic ever (over 6000 words O.o). I should warn you about some things. Firstly, this is a huge tribute to the genre H/C with lots of hurt (physical and mental). Secondly, you need to watch The Great Game for this. I wondered what if John get caught up in the first explosion of the episode.
> 
> Special thanks to my beta, for always asking the good 'what if' questions! :)

“I’m just saying I don’t understand why you have to inflict your opinion upon the world.”

 

“I’m not _inflicting_ it! I write a blog, it’s a common thing you know.”

 

“ _Common,_ yeah.”

 

“You’re just sulking because I wrote something true about you. I’m not going to flatter you all the time, Sherlock, if you need that, find someone else!”

 

“I’ve never asked you to compliment me, you did it by yourself and now you’re making it look like I’m some kind of a narcissistic idiot!”

 

“You said yourself that sociopaths need audience, and you know what? I’m doing great as yours.”

 

“Oh, ‘doing great’ contains writing shit on the internet?”

 

“For God’s sake, Sherlock, it’s only a damned blog which I started because my damned therapist told me to! I’m sorry I have PTSD, but you don’t really care, do you? You might not know about the _solar system_ , that’s why you think that everything in this world circulates around you!”

 

“You’re suggesting I’m selfish?”

 

“No, I’m not suggesting, I’m _stating_. You are, extremely. Even now, the sole reason you pick on me because you’re bored!”

 

“You started shouting first!”

 

“God, I can’t believe this!” 

 

John wanted to jump up from his armchair when he realized he was standing already. He let out an irritated huff. He was not the hot-tempered kind of person, never shouted, never lost control. Until Sherlock came. It took him such a short time to turn John’s world around and that applied to every single feeling. Anger included. He felt this was going nowhere. He decided he needed to get away. He stomped towards the front door.

 

“Where are you going?” he heard from behind.

 

“Out. Need some air,” he barked back as he grabbed his jacket. _Maybe to Sarah’s. I could use a friend._

 

John’s determination didn’t last long. As he stepped out to the cold night air, his heart sank immediately. After three steps, his mind was murmuring to him things like, _it’s only a silly blog_ and _go back, make up with him, you’ll feel better. Might be true_ John thought, his legs halting instantly. In the end, it was not Sarah who he wanted to be with. It was Sherlock. Even when he was an ass.

 

John was about to turn, when his world suddenly went black.

 

***

The door closed with a loud bang. Sherlock sat on the couch, suddenly feeling unbearably miserable.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,”  he hissed to himself.

 

Every muscle in his body wanted to run after John, or just rush to the window and shout ‘I’m sorry’ into the night. He stopped between the two windows instead, forcing himself to turn his back on them. Seconds passed irritatingly slow as he stood there, stubborn and lonely.

 

He heard heavy footsteps on the street. They hesitated for a second. _Hesitating. John is hesitating._ His heart lifted a bit. _Go. I should go._

 

The next thing he knew was that he was lying on the floor. His brain roared up to put together what happened. In a second, Sherlock made several observations. The room was a mess, pieces of glass indicated that the windows were broken. He couldn’t hear a thing; there must have been a loud noise. Something that threw him on the floor… Sherlock’s eyes widened. _An explosion, most likely from the house in front of 221B… In front of… The street… JOHN!_ He struggled to his feet, dizzy from the fall. His body proceeded horrendously slow, while his mind’s scream became louder and louder. _John! John was on the street! There was an explosion and John was on the street! John! John! JohnJohnJohn!!!_

The front door hung open, damaged. Sherlock tossed it aside and stepped out. The street was full of debris. The other house was a ruin, the second floor vanished entirely. No, didn’t vanish. It lain on the asphalt. _ON JOHN!_ With a gasp, Sherlock started to scan his surroundings. He felt his heart stop when his eyes caught a crumpled figure lying almost next to front wall of 221B.

 

Sherlock was there in an instant, pushing away something he didn’t care to identify since it was unimportant rubbish blocking his way from John. _John._ The blast crashed him into the hard brick wall. Sherlock knelt next to him, helplessly looking for the next step in his mind. But his mind refused to answer. It couldn’t. Since it stopped functioning. _Everything_ stopped functioning.

 

With hands shaking terribly, Sherlock checked for a pulse. For eight horrible seconds, he felt none. Exactly two seconds before he would go mad, there it was. Faint, but extant.

 

“John,” he tried to say, and was surprised by the fact that he couldn’t. There was no air to speak. No air to breathe. John took the oxygen with him to the darkness where Sherlock couldn’t follow.

 

He just knelt there, choking, _suffocating_ and couldn’t do a _damn_ thing.

 

He didn’t notice Mycroft until he started to shake his shoulders.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock looked up at him, barely recognizing his brother. Mycroft didn’t matter. One thing did.

 

“J-John,” he forced trough his lips.

 

“Calm down, he’s being taken care of.”  

 

Sherlock turned back to John and saw that some people in red were laying him on a stretcher.

 

“No,” he whispered as John was moving away from his blurred sight.

 

“It’s alright, you’re both going to my hospital,” Mycroft soothed him. Someone tried to push him down to a stretcher too. He didn’t really care. He felt cold. And bleeding. Bleeding from the chest. Some bastard ripped his heart out. _Some bastard…_ White flames of rage started to melt his mind. He pushed some irrelevant hands away.

 

“Mycroft! _Who?_ ”

 

“Sherlock, it would be too early to-“

 

“Someone put a bomb just a few meters away from me without your men noticing! I’m absolutely sure you already- Oh, wait, it’s _him_ , isn’t it.” Despite of the great efforts of medical stuff, Sherlock was off the stretcher.

 

“Sherlock, wait, where are you going? You want to chase him down in pajamas?” 

 

Sherlock froze for a second staring into his brother’s eyes like he was some kind of an imbecile.

 

“Despite the burning desire to see his interior organs, I’m not planning to run after a sick bastard right now. I’m going with John, obviously.” And with this, he jumped into the ambulance which held the doctor mentioned.

 

“But they should check you too.”

 

“I’m fine,” Sherlock murmured and fell into silence, refusing to speak for the rest of the day.

 

***

 

As he was sitting in the pale white corridor, Sherlock started to understand the thing about the solar system. It needed something warm and bright around which everything else could find a place. Something that kept things organized, something that gave life to its surroundings. A sun. _A heart._ Sherlock smiled sourly at the irony of it. Of course he thought he was clever, showing the light of knowledge for the idiots living in their dumb darkness. But it was quite obvious that he was not the sun. Only a planet. He needed his sun. _His heart._

 

John being in mortal danger was very unlikely. But he surely had several broken bones. The question was which bones. Waiting drove Sherlock up on the wall. After arriving to the hospital, John was taken away and Mycroft forced him to an examination room.  He had some nasty bruises and a made-up concussion, which was to keep him in the hospital for a few days. _As if I would leave,_ he snorted. Mycroft was still unable to understand it. John was the most important thing. Not some shitty evil mastermind who had to blow up a bomb to get his attention.

 

Doors creaked, Sherlock jumped to his feet. Two doctors and Mycroft walked his way.

 

“Well?” He choked, as breathing was hard again. Mycroft looked at one of the doctors and nodded.

 

“I must say that Doctor Watson was very lucky,” started the older man. “None of his organs were damaged, and his skull is absolutely fine too.”

 

“But?” Sherlock’s voice was almost a whisper.

 

“He has five broken ribs and severe bruises all over his back and his knees from the fall. We’re giving him as much painkiller as possible, but he shouldn’t get up for at least two weeks.”

 

Sherlock felt some heavy stones being replaced with others on his chest.

 

“Is he-“

 

“Yes, you can go in. I’ll have everything you need brought here,” Mycroft spoke, unnaturally gently. Sherlock wasn’t paying attention. He shoved the silent monkey in doctor suit from his way and stepped into John’s room.


	2. Chapter 2

“Sherl-ah, shit,” John hissed, as he tried to sit up the moment Sherlock showed up in his door. And sitting up with five broken ribs is not the best idea in the world. Sherlock literally flew to the bed.

 

“Don’t move!”

 

John groaned and grabbed his hand. Some seconds later, when he finally managed to catch his breath, John started to jabber.

 

“God, I’m so glad you came. I wake up and they say there was an explosion! They scared the hell out of me, ‘cause I was asking about you, but they kept repeating ‘he’s fine’ like idiotic parrots!”

 

“John-“

 

“No one would give me _proper_ information, I’m a doctor damn it!”

 

“John, slow down.”

 

“But-“

 

“Don’t move! I’m here, okay?” Sherlock slumped into the armchair next to the bed for emphasis, but didn’t let go of John’s hand.

 

“Don’t worry; I’m fi-“A totally murderous look made Sherlock redraft his sentence. “I have some bruises, nothing serious.” John kept staring. “Okay, okay, they said I have a slight concussion, but the doctor made it up for Mycroft, because he feared I would run off. As if a concussion would stop me but never mind.”

 

“And how do you know you don’t have one?”

 

“John, I’m not showing any of the symptoms.”

 

“Are you sure, maybe someone should-“

 

“John!”

 

“Fine, I get it.” John sighed heavily. “Thank God.”

 

There was a long pause, as none of them knew what to say. Sherlock felt his chest getting heavier and heavier, looking at John in that wide hospital bed, full of bandages and pale red bruises (which held a promise to turn angry purple by the next day). Suddenly oxygen failed him once again. He lowered his head on the edge of the bed.

 

“I’m so sorry, John,” he whispered.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“You were right; I was just annoyed and sulky. I actually like your blog, well most of it, I picked on it out of some childish pique. If I’m not such a big idiot, you don’t go, and you’re not on the street when…” Sherlock trailed off.

 

“Sherlock, look at me.” It was that kind of tone when a mother commands her child. Sherlock couldn’t resist, he obeyed instinctively.

 

John’s features were hard, serious, but his eyes held a soft look.

 

“Listen. Yes, you are an idiot, and yes, you can be unbelievably annoying when you got nothing to do. But this is a part of you and I was wrong too, to get offended this easily. I shouldn’t have shouted with you, I’m sorry.”

 

“But-“

 

“I’m not done. Let me make it clear. Me, deciding to go out is not your fault. And some insane bastard blowing up a bomb on the street is _definitely_ not your fault. So do me a favor and stop feeling guilty, okay?”

 

“ I don’t think I-“

 

“Okay?”

 

Sherlock couldn’t help, but smiled. “Do I have a choice?”

 

“Um, no.”

 

“Fine, then.” Sherlock’s smile faded. “Damn John, I was so scared,” he breathed and bent down to make their foreheads meet.

 

“Yeah, me too.” John closed his eyes, realizing how exhausted he was.

 

“I will catch this bastard. He chose the wrong person to challenge.”

 

“I’m afraid I won’t be much help this time.”

 

“Just be alright, John. I’m not sure I can handle a situation like this again.”

 

“Don’t be so dramatic…” John trailed off, half-asleep.

 

“I’m not.” Sherlock laid a light kiss on his forehead and leaned back in the chair for a nap.

 

***

 

“Just go already.”

 

“Let’s check things one more time.”

 

“Argh, you can-“

 

“Okay, I monitored Mycroft’s men, the ones I’ve chosen are here, two in front of the door and two other are patrolling on the corridor. You have the doctor’s number?”

 

“This is ridiculous.”

 

“John?”

 

“Yes, I have it.”

 

“Mycroft’s?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Nurses will come in every two hours, but make sure you call them if you need more pain medication.”

 

“Sherlock, I-”

 

“Your shoulder might became sore soon, so don’t hesitate.”

 

“I’m not-“

 

“Do you have the gun?”

 

“It’s in the drawer.”

 

“No, that’s not good; it takes too much time to get it out. Here, put it under the pillow.”

 

“Fine, it’s there, now _leave_.”

 

Sherlock stood next to the bed and looked around helplessly searching for _anything_ that needed to be done before he went. His expression showed panic and desperation and it was so unusual that John started to get really worried.

 

“Sherlock,” he started, but the detective continued to mumble to himself.

 

“Okay, the gun is loaded, the sheets are clean, but I’m surely forgetting something, what is it? What can it be? I-“

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“Yeah, what?”

 

“Sit down a bit, will you?”

 

Sherlock stared for a second, but sat.

 

“Look, you _have to_ go and catch this idiot. I will be perfectly fine. Here’s my phone, you can contact me anytime. And you should, I want to help as much as possible, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Now go, and call me when you get to the address. I wonder what could be there.”

 

“Yeah, curious,” Sherlock said playing with the awkwardly pink phone he got this morning. Their bomber sent it, obviously, starting some kind of a weird game. John didn’t like it at all. Sherlock’s only problem was that playing required leaving John.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“ _Go._ Lestrade’s waiting.”

 

“Oh, okay.” He got up and strode _very_ slowly towards the door. “Call me if there’s-“

 

“I will, don’t worry… And Sherlock?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Be careful.”

 

“As always.”

 

“Yeah, that’s why I’m saying.”

 

Sherlock shot back a smile before he stepped out of the door. John sighed heavily and hissed in the same time. _Broken ribs suck,_ he decided. Somehow he had a bad feeling about all of this.

 

***

 

Time decided to play stubborn. Minutes ticked away so slowly that sometimes John felt they’re doing it on purpose. He couldn’t do much with five broken ribs, but boredom was the least of his worries. Anxiety was eating him up as he was chained to bed while Sherlock ran after an unquestionably mad criminal. He would be careful, of course, because John asked him, but he had his limits. Not to mention how this game was freaking John out. When Sherlock got to the first place, he sent a text saying: ‘ _Shoes. SH’_ John frowned at his phone and waited for five minutes to get a better explanation. He wasn’t happy to get one though. This game contained more bombs, attached to innocent people. It had ‘rounds’, giving Sherlock time limits to solve some mini-cases. John thought it was ridiculous and creepy at the same time.

 

When he could, Sherlock stopped by the hospital, using the computers delivered in John’s room. John, himself too, did every research he could to help. Even Mycroft came by sometimes, babbling about some missile plans which Sherlock seemed to ignore, but later he asked John to look into it.

 

And John did his best, although the painkillers made him doze off irritatingly often. He tried to skip one or two portions, but Sherlock would notice it right away. He gave John a mouthful and ordered the infusion into his arm. It was mind blowing. John soon remembered why he hated being a patient. He was throbbing, he couldn’t move by himself and what was worse, he couldn’t be behind Sherlock with a gun to shoot every sorry bastard that came too close to his detective.

 

Things weren’t getting better with time. Sherlock had less and less opportunity to come by and John became more and more irate. He picked on nurses, on Mycroft, everyone who dared to step in his room (except Sherlock, of course).

 

The third ‘voice’ in the game was on old woman. Sherlock rushed away very soon after getting the call. He kept putting up the sociopath façade, but John saw how this whole thing got closer and closer to him. John stepped onto a higher stage of fury. Who the hell _dared_ to order Sherlock around, to make him run in circles like an idiot? Who _dared_ to disturb his feelings? And most of all, who _dared_ to separate John from him? John thought he couldn’t be angrier or more worried than that. He was wrong.

 

Approximately two hours before the time limit of the Connie Prince murder case, Sherlock’s check in was late. John decided he might be busy, so he waited. Twenty minutes had passed and Sherlock didn’t call. John felt little needles in his chest. Thirty minutes and he couldn’t wait any longer. Sherlock didn’t pick up. Blood ran out of John’s face. He tried again. Nothing. He dialed Lestrade.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Where is he?”

 

“He’s here, at the station. Why?”

 

“He doesn’t pick up his phone.”

 

“Oh, well, look John, don’t freak out, but the last case didn’t turn out good and-“

 

“What do you mean ‘not good’? You’d better explain it to me properly, Lestrade, I’m not in the mood for games.”

 

 Lestrade sighed into the phone. “ Fine. The old lady was blind.”

 

“Yes, and?”

 

“And when Sherlock solved the case she started to describe the bomber’s voice to him.”

 

“And?” John asked, but he feared he wouldn’t want to hear the rest.

 

“He blew up the bomb before we got there.”

 

John’s eyes widened. He couldn’t find words for long seconds.

 

“John?”

 

“My God. How many?”

 

“Twelve people were there. And Sherlock, well, I think he’s shocked. If that’s possible.”

 

A strange mix of emotions bubbled up in John. It was not pleasant and awakened the irresistible urge to get to the place where Sherlock was.

 

“Okay, that’s it.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’ve had enough. Stay there, Lestrade, I’m going.” With this, John hung up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a badass.

Meanwhile at Scotland Yard a very surprised Lestrade stared into space. Sherlock, who stopped speaking about an hour ago, turned to him confused.

 

“What is it?”

 

“It was John.”

 

“ _Obviously._ I asked what is it?”

 

“He said he’s coming.”

 

“What? Where?”

 

“Here, he said he’s coming here.”

 

They stared at each other.

 

“He can’t,” Sherlock stated. “He’s not allowed to get up and he has nurses and doctors all over him.”

 

“Yeah, you’re right.”

 

After a moment Sherlock’s eyes got even wider. “He has a gun.”

 

“What?”

 

“Damn, Lestrade, he has a gun!”

 

Lestrade processed the information for a second.

 

“My God, you don’t mean- we should go.”

 

“Yeah.” The two men rushed out of the office.

 

***

 

Sherlock jumped out of the car, barely after it stopped. With long, hasty steps he stomped into the hospital, constantly looking for any sign of chaos or firefight. He had no doubt that if John’s irate enough, he would go _really_ far to get to him. He let out a small, relieved sigh when he saw Mycroft’s armed man in front of John’s room.

 

“Is he-“

 

“We disarmed him without problem, sir.”

 

Sherlock froze.

 

“If you hurt him-“

 

“Negative, sir. The doctor said that Doctor Watson’s ribs didn’t change position during the operation.”

 

Sherlock simply snarled at the man before stepping into the room.

 

The sight what greeted him was quite extraordinary, comic even. John was in his bed, the most murderous look on his face Sherlock had ever seen. One of his hands was cuffed to the bed. At the noise of the opening door, John turned and opened his mouth, clearly to argue, but his expression changed almost immediately.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

“John, what the hell were you thinking?” Sherlock couldn’t help smiling. Even with five broken ribs, they had to handcuff John to stop him.

 

“Those idiots. Just because they knew I wouldn’t really shoot that nurse…” John said on a dark, sulky voice.

 

Sherlock chuckled. “You’re amazing.”

 

“Not so much, as it seems.” John clanked the handcuff. “But that’s not important. Are you alright?” Sherlock’s smile faded.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“Do you want me to get back my gun?”

 

“Okay-okay, not really.” He sighed. “Those people died. I was quick, I solved the case, I won and they died anyway.”

 

“You did everything you can.”

 

“Which was clearly not enough.”

 

“It wasn’t your fault. That lady started to describe him, it was inevitable.”

 

“How can you always make it look like I’m the good one?”

 

“Oh, I’m not. Not always. You don’t buy milk, for example. And you store human body parts in our flat. And you’re annoying when you’re bored. Want me to go on?”

 

“No, thanks, I think I got the idea.” Sherlock smiled. It reached his eyes too this time. John let out a relieved sigh and smiled back.

 

“Can you stay a bit?” he asked.

 

“Of course. I think I _need_ to.” With this, Sherlock lowered his head on the bed. John stroked his hair with his free hand.

 

“That’s good. You could use a nap. But before that, could you tell them to untie me?” Sherlock laughed into the sheets.

 

“Fine, but don’t try it again, okay?”

 

“I will if I have to.”

 

“John!”

 

“What? Don’t ask me not to get to you when I’m needed!”

 

“I’m not, I’m just asking you not to move around while your ribs are broken. Please?”

 

“Okay, I’ll try.”

 

“Thank you.” Sherlock laid a kiss on his cheek and went out to call the guard.

 

***

 

“You did what?”

 

“I used one of them as a hostage. They figured out that I wouldn’t shoot her, obviously. But the rest of the nurses are not that sure about it.”

 

“And that’s why they don’t want to come in?”

 

“I know, ridiculous, isn’t it? I don’t even have my gun here. They took it.”

 

“John, my God.” Lestrade dug into his hair. “And I thought Sherlock was the troublesome one.”

 

“Everybody does. Just because he’s a bit odd, you all treat him like a freak.”

 

“Well, I’m sor-“

 

“Don’t apologize to _me_!” John huffed and took some deep breaths. “I’m sorry, I just… God, I’m so worried and I can’t bloody move. I didn’t mean to pick on you.”

 

“It’s nothing. Sherlock is the type of a person who can make you very anxious very easily. Even I can understand that.” John frowned. Lestrade felt the urge to say something else before he somehow got shot. “Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. My and Mycroft’s men are with him.”

 

“Speaking of which, shouldn’t you get going too?”

 

“Yes, you’re right; I just wanted to check on you.”

 

John sighed again.

 

“I know. Thank you. But please, watch out for him instead.”

 

“Roger that,” Lestrade said with a smile and disappeared through the door. John clenched on his phone.

 

***

 

Sherlock shivered. He was fed up with this game, which was quite novel. He loved games. He managed without caring about anyone or anything, but the case. Always chasing and always winning. He himself was surprised when realized how he detested this one. Not solely because John was in hospital with broken ribs and back looking like a Van Gogh. He didn’t like hearing those voices. And he most definitely hated following around a faceless bastard’s instructions.

 

The last one was the most disturbing. A child. People used to think that Sherlock didn’t particularly like children, but it wasn’t true. He liked their honesty and also thought children had the ability to think (they tended to lose it while growing up though). He’d rather fought the Golem again than listening to a child counting back. The painting was a tricky one. He cracked it anyway. It felt damn good, but he realized he’s tired. He decided to go back to John as nothing calmed him more than that. The hospital was only ten minutes away by car, so he didn’t call. John would be so happy when he pops up in his door.

 

The plan was perfect; except that the moment Sherlock stepped into the hospital he knew something was wrong. Mycroft’s men ran around jabbering into their walkie-talkie. Sherlock didn’t bother to stop one; he headed straightly to John’s room. He bumped into Mycroft on the way.

 

“Mycroft, what’s happening?”

 

“Sherlock, you’re back already. I’ve just dialed you. It’s about John.”

 

“What’s wrong with him? Let me see.”

 

“Wait for a moment.”

 

Ignoring his brother, Sherlock stepped into the room. The world suddenly stopped. Nothing reached him, no voice, no touch, but the sight of John’s empty bed. _Empty. No, it shouldn’t be empty. John should be here._

 

“Where?” he barked.

 

“I’m trying to explain, you know.”

 

“Well, do it better, Mycroft! Don’t tell me you don’t know where John is!”

 

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

 

“You what? How is that possible?”

 

“Good question. We’re looking for the answers no-“

 

“How the hell is this possible?! You’re a whole bloody government; there are armed men on the corridor and hundreds of medical stuff! HOW could John disappear from here?!”

 

“I don’t know!”

 

“ _You_ don’t know? My God, Mycroft, have you ever said that before? Damn you!”  Sherlock seemed to lose the last shreds of his control. He rushed around the room, and then on the corridors, shouting, shoving everyone from his way, looking for _anything_ that could help finding John. Mycroft followed, but couldn’t cool him with words.

 

After ten minutes of this madness the pink phone rang. It was like a slap in the face for Sherlock. He answered it with shaking hands.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“John! Where the hell are you? What-“

 

“I must say, I like him very much. He’s a cutie.”

 

Sherlock’s face darkened.

 

“You bastard,” he hissed.

 

“Don’t be rude. I’m just trying to make friends, but your pet is not so kind. He bites. You should train him properly.” John’s voice was close to hissing too.

 

“Quit the game and tell me where. You want to meet me, obviously.”

 

“Clever as always. There’s this pool, you know which one. I might not have to say not to bring any of your friends. And you’d better hurry; your doggy is in some nasty pain. He really shouldn’t move around in this state.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to calm his voice.

 

“Hang in there John, I’m coming.” Before he hung up, he thought he heard a whispered ‘don’t’, but he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter. Of course it was a trap, but he couldn’t care less. John was there. That was all he needed to know.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock’s mind was buzzing. It never did that. Until the moment he stepped into the swimming pool in which Carl Powers died. It started by then. He needed to make big efforts to concentrate. His brain continued to process information, but it had a constant buzzing noise in the background. Something that sounded like a frantic voice repeating ‘John’ over and over again. _John._ John, who wore a suit made of bomb with a red dot dancing on it. John, who tried so hard to look steady, but whose features were clouded by pain. Everything focused on him, except the gun in Sherlock’s hand, which was pointed at the hated man who caused all of this.

 

He never thought he would consider a criminal scary, but Jim Moriarty _was_ scary. Genius and mad. The worst combination. _Consulting criminal._ How brilliantly creepy. Sherlock’s mind didn’t have the opportunity to be amused about it though. It was occupied with making up desperate plans to get John out of there.

 

John seemed to be far ahead of him. The moment Moriarty showed his back to him, he grabbed the man from behind. Sherlock felt his heart stop.

 

“Sherlock, run!” John pressed through his lips. His façade was totally broken; his face was torn with agony. Sherlock was afraid he might faint.

 

“Oh, _good!_ I can see now why you’re keeping him! But…”

 

John’s expression changed into horror, it wasn’t a big leap to figure out that Sherlock got a red dot on him too. Somehow he was relieved. John’s plan was nonsense. He would tell him later to stop being an idiot. _If there’s a later…_ Sherlock had a feeling that Moriarty didn’t want to kill them yet, so he played that card.

 

“You’re games are tiring. Just kill us already.”

 

“Oh, I don’t want to kill you, that’s so boring. No no no. I will burn you. I’ll burn the _heart_ out of you.”

 

A cold shiver ran down Sherlock’s spine as he tried not to shot a glance at John (again). _Keep it cool,_ he told himself.

 

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.” _Well, not_ in _my chest,_ he added for himself.

 

“Come on, you think I don’t know? I feel offended.” He patted John’s shoulder, which caused rage like nausea rising up in Sherlock’s stomach.

 

“Hands off,” he hissed.

 

“See?” Moriarty smiled creepily. “I’m just telling you to be careful. Well, I enjoyed it guys, _really_ , but I gotta go now. “ Very slowly, he strolled out.

 

“Catch you later,” Sherlock growled.

 

“No you won’t,” singed back a voice before the door closed.

 

An instant later Sherlock dropped the gun and fell on his knees before John. With hands shaking like hell he unbuttoned the detestable vest.

 

“Alright? Are you alright?”

 

“Not so much.” John’s voice was thin. Sherlock tossed away the explosives and turned back just in time to catch John, whose knees gave up the fight.

 

“Hey, hey, John, please don’t faint!”

 

“If you’re asking this nicely.” His breathing was ragged. Sherlock tried to hold him as still as possible. “Don’t worry; I don’t think any of the ribs have pierced through my lungs so it’s fine.”

 

“John, I’m not in the mood for joking.”

 

“You should go after that bastard.”

 

“Like I said, stop joking around. I’m not leaving you.”

 

“Oh, how touching.” Both of them jumped at the humming voice. “Sorry guys, I’m _so_ changeable.”

 

Sherlock grabbed the gun from the floor and stood. John leaned on the wall, shooting his famous glare at Moriarty (who would be dead long ago if John could kill with thoughts). Red dots appeared, covering their whole body. Sherlock’s mind roared up. Their only way out was the bomb next to Moriarty. He could shoot in it. The pool could help them survive the explosion. _But I have to grab John with me._ Sherlock flinched at the thought. It would cause considerable pain, not to mention that he might _kill_ John while doing so. He had only seconds to decide, so he did what he always did when he felt lost: he looked at John. Mind reading was another of the doctor’s special ability. He nodded slightly and Sherlock knew he understood and agreed with his plan. He didn’t need more. He pulled the trigger.

 

***

 

John could hardly see because of the black and white dots dancing in his sight. He felt like he could faint in any moment, but he didn’t allowed himself to. Sherlock needed him. They had to get through this, and he intended to do it together.

 

He understood Sherlock’s plan in less than a second. He knew they didn’t stand a chance if the other man has to pull him too into the water. It could only work in one way and that was for John to push Sherlock. He was happy that he had learnt in Afghanistan how to block pain for moments. One second, that’s all he needed. He wouldn’t care what came after. If he managed to save Sherlock, it was irrelevant.

 

Military training helped him steel his muscles and move exactly an instant before he heard the shot. Things slowed down. He heard a gasp from Sherlock, felt his body bumping into his and pain rushing over him. He pushed further, until there was a loud splash. Suddenly every noise was muffled by water. There was a thundering sound and bright flashes made the water change color from blue to orange. John’s sight blurred. His body went numb. Darkness crept from every direction. _This is death,_ he thought. It was different from last time. He was calm. Sherlock was safe. Everything was fine.

 

He was about to give in when arms grabbed his shoulders. They pulled him up and John instinctively gasped for air. His chest burnt up again. It made him choke.

 

“John, John, please!” Someone splashed into his ears. _Sherlock._ Somewhere under the white flames of pain John eased. _He’s alright._

 

Sherlock struggled to pull him out. John still had hard time breathing. Oxygen stuck in him when he wanted to exhale and refused to come out when he wanted to suck it in. He concentrated on not coughing. He was sure a cough would send him into a coma.

 

“John!” Sherlock’s face appeared in front of him. “John, breathe, come on, slowly! Please!” He was begging; John couldn’t resist. He fought to stay awake and do as he was told. He didn’t manage much though. The darkness was stubborn. Before it took him over entirely, John heard sirens above Sherlock’s broken voice.

 

***

 

“John, lie down.”

 

“But I just wanted to-“

 

“I said _lie._ ”

 

“I’m allowed to move around, you know.”

 

“Between twenty and forty minutes exercise per day, yes. We have already had today’s walk.”

 

“Yes, I only wanted to make a tea.”

 

“I can make one for you.”

 

“No you can’t.”

 

“Okay, I can’t. Do you want me to carry you into the kitchen?”

 

“No!” John turned bright red.

 

They let him go home a couple of days before the official dismissal. He wasn’t exactly bedridden, but he was given strict rules for physical activities. Sherlock decided he shouldn’t walk more than it’s necessary. He wouldn’t let him take the stairs, or get to the kitchen. Once John got super irritated about not being able to go upstairs. Sherlock didn’t say a word, just simply lifted him up in his arms and carried him. It did blow the irritation away, but didn’t solve the problem. Which was Sherlock being so overprotective that sometimes John wanted to strangle him.

 

“Then, what should I get you?”

 

“Nothing, thanks. Come here instead.”

 

“Hey, don’t sit up!”

 

“But I wanted you to sit here, so I-“

 

“John, why can’t you just stay still? Five broken ribs and you threaten nurses and criminal masterminds, get yourself abducted, jump into a pool…” Sherlock slumped down with a huff, pulling John to his chest to steady him.

 

“It was not a threat. She was never in real danger.”

 

“That’s not the point. I think I’m going to handcuff you to the bed. It seemed to work.”

 

“It does sound seductive, but I got my gun back.”

 

“My mistake.”

 

There was a long pause. Sherlock stroke John’s hair absent mindedly.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You will catch him.”

 

“I know. He’ll never lay a finger on you again.”

 

“Well, if he does, I guess I’ll just shoot him.”

 

Sherlock chuckled. Things were back in order. His sun was shining brightly. Sherlock remembered something.

 

“By the way, I’ve done some research on the solar system.”

 

A wide grin appeared on John’s face. “And? Did you find it accurate enough?”

 

“Oh, yes, _very_ accurate.”

 

“Another mystery is solved then.”

 

“As you say, my dear Watson.”

 

“Don’t call me that! It sounds ridiculous.”

 

“Sorry, _John.”_

 

“Mm, better.” John settled his head under Sherlock’s chin. “TV?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Sitting there and watching TV together, Sherlock felt he could do that for eternity. His mind was restless with the chase after Moriarty, so he welcomed these peaceful moments with joy. Solely spending time with John. No one could take it away from him. Not even Moriarty. _I’ll burn the heart out of you._ Sherlock snorted mentally. His heart was burning already. It was a sun for God’s sake. 


End file.
